


Katsuki Bakugou: Son of Satan

by I_Live_4_Books



Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Bakugou doesn't want to make friends, Bakugou is Quirkless, Bakugou is basically Rin Okumera, Because yes, Gen, Kuro's in there, True Cross Academy is a thing, Tryna get away from the Vatican, and hail satan, but he and Kirishima are totally besties, but he got them blue flames soo, imma be a hero instead, so he does the obvious thing he becomes a hero, so is Ukobach, the cram school is real but he says nah fam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Live_4_Books/pseuds/I_Live_4_Books
Summary: Humans live in the world of Assiah, and demons in Gehenna. The two dimensions are not meant to interfere with each other, but demons still possess creatures in Assiah in spite of this. Though there are humans who choose to fight these demons, exorcists, the majority of humanity live in ignorance, thinking demons to be that of myth. Taking advantage of this, the Demon Lord, Satan, bore a human son: a boy named Katsuki Bakugou.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Katsuki Bakugou: Son of Satan

Look, I didn't want to be what I am. Oh, and what am I, you ask? Well that's a very good question, and a pretty loaded one too. Half of the time, I'm not even sure myself, but simply put, I'm the son of Satan.

Now, most of you guys are probably going to read this and be like, "Wow! That sounds pretty lit, Katsuki! You should be grateful for all of the power you have!"

Well, whoopty-fucking-doo: as it turns out, being Satan's son absolutely sucks.

Being a half-demon is dangerous. It's also very irritating. Now, most of my time is being taken up by other demons that want to kill, stab, or eat me; or, really, whatever they're in the mood for. So that's nice.

Anyways, my name is Katsuki Bakugou. I'm fifteen years old, and this is the story of how Satan became the Wild Draw Four card that body-slammed itself into what was supposed to be my pleasant Sunday evening.

***

My day starts out normal enough; and by normal, I mean being drug out of bed at the crack of dawn to help clean up the church building. Our monastery's primary purpose is to hold counseling and to provide 'exorcism' services. Of course, since it _is_ a church building, it also holds church services on Sunday mornings, which is why we are forced to clean up before the worship starts.

By the way, I've been living at Southern Cross Boys' Monastery practically since the day I was born. 

Some of you might be saying, "Aw, how sweet." Other's are probably making fun of me, calling me a religion-freak and the like. Well guess what, idiots: you can all go and suck a dick.

Let's move on, shall we? The guy who decided it best to yank me from the comfort of my bed by the ankles is named Izumi. He, along with the other few 'monks' and 'exorcists,’ lives and works here. As per usual, Izumi's blond hair appears to be completely unmanageable, and his ankle-length cassock flutters against his heels with every step he takes.

After tumbling to the floor, I blink the blurriness out of my eyes and begin to groan loudly. "What was all of that for?" I bite, annoyed. 

Great; I've been awake for less than fifteen seconds and my day is already ruined.

Izumi simply ignores the agitation leaking not-so-subtly into my voice and shrugs. "Your old man wants you to make breakfast." 

I find myself frowning, teeth bared, as I begin to sit up. "You go and tell that old troll to make it himself!" 

"But _Katsuki_ ," Izumi begins to whine, "you know he can't cook." 

Okay, I will give him that. My dad can't cook or bake anything for shit. He is one of those, you know: the types that somehow manage to burn water. When I was younger, we'd always eat fast-food or takeout. On the days we couldn't, however, he'd attempt to make something up. A good majority of the time, the dishes he'd made weren't even edible. I was six years old when I'd finally come up with a solution: after biting down upon the fourth eggshell within my dry and crusty omelet, I decided that I'd learn to cook. And, obviously, it has become one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

"Yeah?" I say, growl rumbling in my throat. I crawl back into bed, my hands clutching onto my blankets as I attempt to bury myself further underneath them. "Well that's not my problem; now get out."

Sighing, Izumi does as I tell him and leaves my room, not bothering to slide the door shut behind him, most likely out of spite. Now thoroughly irritated, I let out a loud snort and roll over in my bed to face the wall in an attempt to go back to sleep.

Recently, I haven't been getting a lot of rest, much to my annoyance. Our last term is ending next month, in March, and I guess the thought of exams has been keeping me up at night. I should probably get up and study so I don't worry myself to an early grave, but I can't see myself doing _that_ anytime soon. 

I just want to get out, you know? I'm sick of school; I'm tired of people thinking that they're bigshots because they have cool quirks. "Well, Katsuki," you must be asking, "don't _you_ have a powerful quirk?" 

No. No, I don't.

I'm what people call 'quirkless.' I don't have some kick-ass power that woos the girls and makes people think I can accomplish something amazing. No: somehow, I ended up inheriting everything from the failure-half of the gene pool. 

Oh, and did you know that under twenty percent of the world's population is quirkless? In case you’re incredibly dense or just plain stupid, that’s _not_ a lot of people. In fact, I’ve never even heard of another quirkless person, let alone met one. It’s that rare; so rare, in fact, that it’s ‘mildly disturbing’ to even see one- the teacher’s words, not mine. 

Until I was about nine years old, I had been attending school at Daita Elementary, a cheap, public elementary school that was also relatively close to the monastery. However, after being made fun of by my classmates for being quirkless, I guess I just snapped. I’d ended up punching a kid right in the mouth, and he’d lost a couple of his baby teeth because of it. And I only became angrier as he began crying for a teacher. I threw things across the room: children’s toys, books, even chairs. The teachers eventually called my dad in order to try and calm me down, or perhaps they had thought that I’d required an ‘exorcism.’ 

“Katsuki, do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done?” he had yelled at me from across the classroom. “You hit that boy _so_ hard, he’s in the hospital right now!”

My dad’s reprimands had only made me even more furious. “This is all his fault: he called me _weak!_ ” I growled. “He told me that I wasn’t good enough!” My fists, sprinkled in the boy’s blood, clenched at my sides. “He deserved it, and I’d do it again!”

In the grand scheme of things, I’d not only ended up punching my dad, but I’d also somehow broken three of his ribs. To say that he was not amused was an understatement. After being homeschooled for the remainder of elementary and enduring the grounding of a lifetime, I promptly changed schools. Now I attend Chitose Junior High, a private school for troubled kids in southern Tokyo. 

Am I a troubled kid? 

Yeah; you could say that.

But now, all I need to do is finish my last year of junior high. Unlike my fellow 'troublesomes,’ I don’t plan on attending high school. Once I graduate, I’ll finally be able to turn my part-time job into a full-time job. At the moment, I work the afternoon shifts at a small grill house. When I’d first applied, I wasn’t sure if I was going to make the cut, but after having a taste of my grilled sukiyaki, I was hired on the spot as a chef, believe it or not. If I can manage to hold onto this job, I’ll be making money in no time.

“Katsuki!” a voice yells downstairs: my dad. “Help us clean up before the service starts!”

I curse (rather loudly), kicking the sheets off of my body, and roll myself out of bed. Pulling on a loose sweatshirt, I stomp loudly down the stairs and toward the church’s auditorium where velvety pews sit in rows and crucifixes adorn the walls. Near the far end of the room, a podium stands upon the risen, stage-like floor, and behind it, a dark, wooden confessional awaits the sins of others. Most of the windows are open, allowing a cool breeze flow throughout the room. 

“Ah,” a voice echoes throughout the room, “I see you’ve finally decided to wake up.”

Standing at the head of the pews is my father, wearing a tired scowl. My dad, Masaru Bakugou, is _supposedly_ the head ‘exorcist’ of our monastery, and, according to Izumi, he’s deeply respected by a lot of people. But, knowing Izumi, that’s probably all talk. My dad’s just a glorified guidance counselor. Dad- he’s a keep-the-peace kind of guy; when people come to the monastery seeking an exorcism, he simply tells them what they want to hear so they won’t become angry and keep coming back. But, then again, it must be tough when your job is to vanquish things that don’t even exist.

“What?” I ask sarcastically. “No ‘good morning?’”

Dad snorts, rolling his eyes. “You were supposed to be up and making breakfast an hour ago, so no: no ‘good morning.’” 

Maruta, another man living here, snickers from his spot near the window he’s cleaning. He is a rather heavyset man but friendly nonetheless. However, his laughing at me is beginning to grow quite annoying. 

“Nobody asked you, Maruta,” I turn my head sharply, growling in his direction. “Don’t you have a church to clean?”

“Yes.” In front of me, my dad’s eyes narrow and his brow furrows. “And so do you.” 

He tosses me an old, dampened rag and continues sweeping the floors. I simply roll my eyes and begin wiping the dust from the backs of pews and window sills. We have about half an hour before worship services start, and, judging by how much cleaning has been accomplished already, we should be done in about ten minutes. Then I’ll be able to go out on my weekly grocery run and get away from this crappy church.

Just as I’d estimated, the remainder of the cleaning only takes a short while longer to complete. Izumi wipes away the newly perspiring sweat that dots his brow with the back of his sleeve, and gives the auditorium a quick once-over before sighing in slight exhaustion as well as exasperation. “It’s official: this is probably the worst cleanup job we’ve done in years.”

I can’t help but let out a snort and quickly begin scanning the room. “Come on; it doesn’t look _that_ bad.”

Sure; clumps of dust still linger in the auditorium’s corners in piles, and some cobwebs are hanging from the chandeliers’ dimly lit candles- okay, it’s pretty bad. And, though I hate to admit it, they would have done a much better job of getting the place cleaned up if I was there to help.

My dad and the others give me a small, pointed glare, but it doesn’t last long. Another man living here, Seishiro, enters the auditorium and allows a cringe to settle upon his face. He turns to my father and mutters, “I thought you would’ve been done cleaning by now.”

Dad simply shakes his head and lets out an exasperated breath. “We were a little short-handed,” he replies, making sure to look straight in my direction. I simply roll my eyes and wait for him to continue, “But I think we’re just going to call it a day since the service will be starting soon.”

“In that case,” Seishiro says once more, “Father Bakugou, there is someone here to see you.”

My father grunts in acknowledgment and begins to follow the man towards the exit. “Katsuki,” he says, pausing to turn around, “take everyone’s rags and put them up for me. Oh,” he says suddenly, remembering something more, “and, when you get the groceries, we are in desperate need of eggs.” And, with that, he turns back around to follow Seishiro out of the building.

Then, all at once, the dirty washcloths are tossed in my direction. Izumi and the others then go about their business, and I throw all of the dust-encrusted rags into a wash bin so I can get ready to leave for the ‘Nico-Nico’ superstore down the road. After sorting through the stacks of coupons sitting upon one of our kitchen counters, I call an, “I’m heading out!” over my shoulder and shut the front door behind me. 

The walk to Nico-Nico typically isn’t long- not at all, maybe a good ten minutes at the most, sometimes even five or six if I decide to run. It’s a good way to calm down and think about not-so-awful things… well, usually. This time, things don’t necessarily go according to plan. Long story short: I somehow manage to get into a fight with three of my classmates (Reiji Shiratori and his two-man gang of thugs) from Chitose. Of course, I beat the shit out of them and win but not without gaining a small cut on my cheek as well as bruising a couple of my knuckles. 

As the three of them scramble away, shouting curses, I can’t help but snort. I don’t need a quirk to beat up assholes; I do just fine on my own. 

Wiping the little amounts of blood off of my face, I shove my hands back into my pockets and continue walking. In next to no time at all, I find the superstore waiting for me across the street. I fidget, curling my toes and rocking back and forth on my heels as I wait for the crosswalk sign to light. When it does, I jog across the street and into the car-crowded parking lot. 

“Stop!” I notice a young girl crying out. “Please, give it back!”

For a moment, I simply stand, confused as she runs helplessly about the parking lot. Only after squinting do I see it: her scarf fluttering about on its own, keeping itself just out of her reach; it’s almost like it’s _teasing_ her. Some kid- no, some little _idiot_ with an invisibility quirk must be messing with her.

“Hey!” I shout angrily, running toward them. Without a moment’s thought, I snatch the scarf out of the air, suddenly noticing how light and easy it was to grab it- almost like there was nothing holding onto it at all. I turn my gaze toward the young girl, no doubt around the ages of seven or eight, who shyly holds her hands close to her chest.

“Is somebody, like- I don’t know- messing with you?” I finally ask, though probably a little harsher than necessary.

Her eyes widen, though only slightly, and she opens her mouth as if she’s about to answer but is suddenly interrupted by what seems to be an oddly timed breeze. The scarf, hanging limply in my hands just moments before, swings and flaps wildly into the wind, and the end of it becomes heavier as if something were hanging off of it.

My eyes narrow, both in confusion and slight alarm. Who is- what kind of quirk _is_ this? 

Head whipping back and forth in anger, I search for the source of the quirk responsible. However, I find that no one, other than myself and this young girl, is in the parking lot, and everyone outside of it pays us no mind, simply attending to their business. I feel a light tugging from my grip, and a small squeak sounds from the girl in front of me. 

“Whoa!” I yell, allowing the scarf to be ripped from my hands. When I turned back toward the girl, I’d seen it: something had been hanging onto the scarf, and it was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It had a small, round body with short, stubby hind legs and thick forelegs. But that wasn’t why it had startled me: it was the fact that the monkey-faced _thing_ had simply appeared out of nowhere.

The small creature growls and cackles, running in wild circles and into the superstore, dragging the scarf behind it. 

“Hey!” I shout at it, breaking into a run behind it. I grab at with my hands and stumble over my own feet into the store. “Get back here!”

The thing- it whips around countertops and shelves with ease, all while letting the scarf trail behind it carelessly, allowing its fluttering end to taunt me further inside. A growl makes its way into my throat as I chase the little devil throughout the store, often knocking into unsuspecting shoppers or stocked shelves, their contents falling to the ground. However, no one spares the creature a second glance as it races down different aisles- no, they don’t even look at it, only giving me tired and irritated stares. 

Are people not seeing this? 

It turns sharply toward the empty pharmaceuticals aisle, causing me to grunt as I run into and push myself away from one of the shelves in haste. Turning back toward the aisle, I hear a yell: the young girl. She stands at the aisle’s end- she must have followed me in here- and the little thing bolts toward her, leaping upon a mound of boxes stacked directly behind her. She lets out a small scream and ducks her head, covering it with her hands. The little devil bounces back and forth upon the boxes, waving the girl’s scarf around like some sort of trophy. And suddenly, like some sort of dam, heavy, beer-filled cans burst forth from the boxes because of the thing’s additional weight. The little girl begins to scream.

“Get down!” I yell. Wrapping my arms around her tiny body, I pull it closer to my own, making sure to receive the brunt of the falling boxes and cans of beer. However, the little girl falls limp in my arms.

“ _Yui_!”

In no time, a woman is at my side, pulling the unconscious girl into her arms and crying out her name- the girl’s mother no doubt. I don’t really know what happens next; from what I can remember, the girl- Yui- was taken to an emergency care unit by her mother. As soon as the pair leave Nico-Nico , customers continue about their business, though there might be a few that are a little shaken up.

I leave as well. It’s only noon and today has already become a huge-ass mess; I just want to go home, you know?

Slumping my shoulders, I step through the monastery’s gates and mentally prepare myself for the lecture I’m about to be hit with for not getting the groceries we need. However, I never receive it.

“Ah,” my dad says, gaining my attention. In front of me, he stands on our church’s wooden porch and appears to have been conversing with another man, most likely another client. “You’re finally home.”

The client turns his head, finding my gaze. “Are you Katsuki Bakugou?”

I grunt, turning my head away. “Who’s asking?”

The man tilts his head and turns his body, revealing a little girl clinging to the ends his coat: Yui. “I’m Yui’s father. I don’t know how to thank you for what you did for her.” Yui smiles and nods along with her father’s words. “Thanks to you, she only suffered a slight scrape.” The man then sighs, “Yui has always been a scatter-brained child: tripping, falling down stairs.” The little girl frowns but doesn’t respond as her father’s brow furrows in concern. “She’s never without fresh wounds.”

“She’s not scatter-brained.” Upon seeing the man’s confused face, I click my tongue, annoyed. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s being picked on, you moron.” The man’s eyes widen and my father’s body tenses- most likely because I’ve just insulted one of his clients- but I continue without a care. “He’s, like, pulling her hair and snatching things away from her.”

“And you saw this?” my dad asks suddenly, though whether he’s worried or impressed, I can’t really tell.

The man steps forward, features now angry. “Can you describe him?”

“The brat had a quirk like I’d never seen before,” I reply, absent-mindedly shoving my hands into my pockets. “He was short with a face kind of like a monkey’s, but I think he had some sort of invisibility quirk too because he kept on disappearing.”

The man scowls, grabbing his daughter’s hand. “Unbelievable.” He and Yui step off of the porch and head toward the monastery’s gates.

“Where are you going?” Dad calls out to them.

“To the school,” the man replies firmly. “ I need to contact the PTA and try to fair it out whoever it is that’s been bullying my daughter.”

Yui, who seemed to be perfectly content on being drug along, suddenly stops, tugging at her father’s hand. She frowns and tears look to be pricking her eyelids. “You don’t understand!” She grabs his arm, pulling him back. “I’m not being bullied by kids at my school; it’s the evil fairies!” She looks to the ground as if ashamed for speaking out but continues trying to explain, “They come into my bedroom late at night and make all sorts of awful things happen, and now, they’re even doing it outside.”

For a moment, the man looks stunned, but his gaze falls to his daughter, filled with some sort of tired sympathy. “Yui’s a child with a vivid imagination,” he sighs. “I’m afraid I’ve heard these fairytales from her before.” The man’s shoulders begin to sag. “Lately, it’s beginning to seem as though she can’t distinguish her bizarre daydreams from reality.”

“Damn it, listen,” I snort in reply. “I get it; what she’s saying sounds completely unreal. But who is she supposed to rely on if her own parents won’t even try to get what she’s saying?” I can’t help but growl.

Dad then chooses to swat me over the head before speaking quietly with Yui and her father. I guess he’s finally gotten tired of me yelling at his clients. The two of them eventually leave, satisfied with whatever they’ve been told, and my dad saunters back up to the porch. “You know, Katsuki, it’s about a million years too soon for you to begin lecturing others.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, opening the front door, “whatever.”

However, it seems my dad isn’t finished yet. “And by the way, for the foreseeable future,” he continues, “you’re grounded.” He pulls out a slip of paper and holds it up to my face. “Nico-Nico’s manager just left _this_ for us: a bill for all the damage you caused to her store and goods.”

My eyes widen, and I let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of zeros, old man.”

“Yeah; no shit, Katsuki,” my dad grunts, lightly chopping my head with his hand. Then he smirks. “And guess whose paycheck it’s coming out of?”

I groan loudly, yelling. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Nope,” Dad smiles once more and shoves me through the open door. “Now get inside and eat some lunch, alright?”

I don’t reply, instead deciding to make myself and eat a sandwich before taking a much-needed nap. My dad doesn’t usually swear; it’s a pretty rare occurrence and only happens when he’s either drunk (which is hardly ever), extremely pissed, or just five-hundred percent done with what life decides to throw at him. Or maybe he developed it because of my bad habit. Izumi used to joke and say that my mouth was simply made to make up for everyone else’s, and Dad would laugh, agreeing whole-heartedly.

Lately, though, it’s been happening more and more often. Dad’s been more stressed out than usual, a lot like I’ve been, actually- though I doubt it’s because of my upcoming exams. Of course, him being a little tense isn’t all that uncommon; he’s practically in a constant _state_ of stress. But he only ever gets _this_ worked up near my birthday in April, which is two months away.

As a kid, I was always told that my birthday was April twentieth, but it never seemed real, I guess. I don’t know when I was really born or where, for that matter. I don’t even know who my mother was, but Dad knows; that much is obvious. He will always deny it- to the grave, I’m willing to bet- that he’d never known or seen her. However, every year, when my birthday rolls around- of course, he’s happy that I’ve managed to live another year and all of that, but he’s also kind of distant, you know? Something must have happened to my mother, but every time I have tried to ask, he changes the subject or makes up some wild story about finding and adopting me.

“Come on, Dad,” I asked, about seven years old at the time. “Tell me about Mom; what was she like?”

Dad simply smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know; I picked you up under a _bridge_.”

I was only able to groan a quiet, “Not again,” before he dove into another crazy tale about my birth.

“It was winter,” he began, “and a _giant_ watermelon came floating down the river, and when I split that sucker open, I found you inside of it!” he exclaimed dramatically. And that’s when Izumi or Maruta would join in, going along with the story, often making it even more ridiculous. 

“Yeah!” Izumi said. “I remember there being talk about whether or not we’d simply cut it up with a super sharp knife or let Father Bakugou rip it open with his bare hands.” He let out a low whistle and began to laugh, “If we hadn’t let your dad do his thing, we’d have whacked you in half.”

I shake my head a little, clearing my thoughts as I shift my body to see the alarm clock beside my bed. I roll my eyes, failing to suppress a groan. It’s half past noon and time for me to go to work. Throwing the blankets off of my body, I roll out of bed and, out of habit, trudge toward the window to open the curtains. 

Sunlight peaks through the window onto my face, and I can’t help but wince and squint my eyes in retaliation. A yawn makes its way into my throat, and I run a hand through my hair, attempting to re-fluff the parts that have become matted. Blinking away my midday nap drowsiness, I open my eyes and allow them to become adjusted to the light outside.

“What,” I mutter, eyes widening, “the _actual_ hell.” 

What looks to be tiny black bugs swarm outside my window. Hundreds of them- no thousands- flutter about the sky and overall city. I slip on a pair of shoes, practically trip down the stairs, and swing the front door open, running outside to get a better look at them. Big mistake: they immediately get in my face. I swat at them, trying to keep them from clinging to my shirt and chirping in my ears, to get them away from me. 

However, I quit doing so when I notice people stopping to stare at me. The bugs roam around their faces, brushing against their skin but no one pays any mind to them. Can they not _see_ these things?

“Bakugou, my friend!”

I’m suddenly dragged out of my thoughts by an imbecile, one I’ve already had the pleasure of beating the shit out of today. Yep, you guessed it: Reiji Shiratori. I roll my eyes and turn my gaze toward him and his ‘little group of thugs,’ all bandaged up from only hours before. Oddly enough, though, the bugs seem to be swarming around Shiratori even more than they were me. It’s almost difficult to see his face behind all of them.

“You have a second?” he asks, lips twitching into a grin. 

I growl, stalking toward the monastery’s gates where all of them await me and their inevitable beating. A thought crosses my mind, and I stop before reaching the exit. I let out a rough and irritated sigh, turning back toward the monastery. “I’ll beat the shit out of you later; I have to get ready for work.”

One of them laughs. “What’s the matter, Bakugou? Don’t tell me you’re going to run away and hide behind your daddy,” the punk taunts.

Before I can even think to ignore them, my feet quit moving, freezing me on the spot. “If I end up losing my perfect attendance raise over _this_ ,” I mutter to myself, turning back around, “there’s going to be hell to pay.” 

I exit the monastery, foregoing both the fact that I’m grounded and that I need to be heading to the grill house, and follow them to what looks to be an abandoned court. Dirt powders the floor, and the chain-link fence surrounding us is rusted and worn out- I guess it’s also used as a miniature dump due to all of the leftover-looking crap scattered throughout the place: rotted slabs of wood, cracked beer bottles, even dusty sweaters.

“Sorry about this morning,” Shiratori says, gaining my attention. A maniacal grin splits across his face as he speaks. “I was only playing with those pigeons but then my hands slipped.”

I growl. This morning, on the way to Nico-Nico’s, I’d seen Shiratori lighting pigeons aflame with his quirk. He’d spend a couple of minutes generating the heat within his hands and simply touch one of the birds’ feathers, watching them writhe and squirm as they burned to ashes. 

“Anyway,” Shiratori continues, “I want to know how much you want. My parents are somewhat famous, you see.” He slides his hands onto his hips, obviously proud. “And as for me, I’m about to enroll at UA High School, but it’d be a bother if unsavory rumors began to spread.”

“What,” I smirk, “that you got the shit beaten out of you by a quirkless kid?” I let out a bark of laughter. “That’s some good hero material right there.”

Shiratori’s smile diminishes, replaced by a frown, but he doesn’t let up. “Consider it hush-money. I’m buying your silence, so you just have to keep this episode between you and me.”

I snort, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Keep your money; I don't need it. Now, I’ve got to go to work.” I turn around, keeping my head low as I begin to walk away from the court.

Behind me, I hear the echoes of Shiratori’s laughter. “What’s that: bravado?” he smiles again, watching as I turn around. “Everyone knows that you’re damn poor.” He laughs again, waving a ten thousand yen bill in front of my face. “It’s probably why people keep going back to that church: pity.”

I don't remember touching him, but the next thing I know, Shiratori is lying flat on his back and using a hand to cover his nose; I must have punched him. “That hurt,” he mutters, dragging his hand down his face. Then he looks at me, eyes beyond murderous. “I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you!”

Suddenly, the little black bugs- more of them swarm around Shiratori, almost covering his entire body. His eyes begin to glow like little blood moons, and his fingers stretch, turning into talons. A thin black tail whips back and forth behind him, and horns like a ram’s sprout, curling around his head. But this doesn’t make any sense; this isn’t his quirk. 

This isn’t- he’s not _human_.

The thugs- the ones Shiratori brought with him- get me by the neck and arms, using the weight of their bodies to shove me into the ground. They laugh, holding me down as I struggle beneath them, kicking and thrashing my head. 

“An eye for an eye,” Shiratori says, walking toward an old trash bin, a flame resting within it. “A tooth for a tooth.” Reaching inside, he grabs hold of a metal rod. Its end shines a bright red-orange and small flames continue to lick at it. Flashing a satisfied grin, he begins to stalk in my direction. “I’m going to give you twice the pain that you’ve caused me.”

Then, Shiratori squats in front of me, grabbing a fistful of my hair so that he may see my entire face. “Now,” he says giddily, “where would you like me to burn you: your nose, or your mouth maybe?” he suggests, bringing the rod closer to my face. “Oh, or perhaps your eyes.”

I can feel the rod, just inches away from my cheek, burn against my skin and sting my eyes. My body can’t stop shaking; I’m scared. 

He’s actually going to do it.

I find my breathing becoming more and more erratic the closer he brings the rod to my face. No; I will not let him touch me with that. I _won’t_.

Suddenly, I let out a yell- though whether it is in defiance or fear, I can’t really tell, and, for whatever reason, Shiratori’s grip on my hair loosens. I feel a tug in the pit of my stomach, and my body begins to tingle as if waking up- pins and needles. Then, flames burst to life, flickering angrily against my skin. 

Shiratori and his sidekicks are flung away from me, all calling out in surprise- the flames must have been more powerful than I thought. It’s then that I come back to my senses and bring my hands to my face in shock. The flames- curls of blue-hot fire dance across my palms and up my arms. They cover my entire body. But they don’t hurt. 

“Those blue flames are indeed proof that you are the _true_ offspring of Satan.” Shiratori walks toward me, a new confidence in his posture. “Yes,” he continues, his wicked smile only growing, “my eye was unerring.”

He then does something unexpected: he bows before me, settling down on one knee and placing a hand across his chest- though I doubt he’s actually giving me any form of respect. It almost feels like mockery. “My name,” he says, “is Astaroth. Come with me, my young prince.” He outstretches his hand toward me. “Lord Satan has long awaited you.”

For a moment, I'm too stunned to move. I'm confused and kind of terrified, but overall, I'm pissed. I'm a good mile and a half away from the grill house, and my shift started at least twenty minutes ago. A growl makes its way into my throat. This idiot just made me lose the raise I'd managed to keep up for almost a year. If I could've kept my perfect attendance for a couple of more months, I would've been promoted to A-level staff.

With a scowl, I push myself to my feet, ready to attack Shiratori. However, something stops me: my dad's voice. 

“Evil is in their hearts.”

My head whips around and I see him, walking into the trashed court as if witnessing something like this isn’t uncommon for him. He doesn’t once look at me, instead, deciding to glare menacingly toward Shiratori as he continues his mantra. “Oh Lord, give to them according to their works and the wickedness of their endeavors. According to the works of their hands, render unto them their reward.”

Beside me, Shiratori flinches away, a sneer forming upon his face. Dad seems to notice as well, choosing to chant louder than before. “Thou shalt destroy them and shalt not build them up.”

“Curse those words,” Shiratori growls, hissing between his teeth. “Damn you, exorcist!”

Shiratori stands, seething, but Dad simply smirks. “Blessed be the Lord.”

“I’ll rip that mouth of yours right off!” Shiratori scrambles forward, running toward my dad with an irregular quickness and urgency. “And you’ll never utter such filth again!”

However, Dad isn’t fazed in the slightest, and not once does he stop his reciting. I sit, amazed as he somehow manages to subdue Shiratori, flipping him to where he's sprawled out on his back. Dad concludes, “Thou shalt perish!”

Shiratori then lets out a loud, inhuman scream. His body shakes violently as if he were having some sort of seizure, and a thick black mist erupts from his throat, pushing its way past his lips and into the open air where it dissolves into nothingness. Shiratori’s body falls limp, and his eyes roll back into his head.

Dad sighs, stepping over Shiratori’s body. “Katsuki, are you alright?”

I shake my head a little, stunned, but quickly come to. “What was that?” I ask harshly, pointing toward Shiratori’s crumpled body. “Just what the hell _is_ he?”

My dad nudges Shiratori’s side with his foot, shrugging. “I exorcised the demon that possessed him. He should wake up in a moment.”

It is then that I finally notice: his horns, his talons, and his tail- they’re gone, almost like they were never there in the first place. I look back to Dad, eyes narrowing. “Demon?” I ask skeptically.

"You can see them now too, can't you?" Dad asks, blowing at one of the tiny black bugs floating throughout the air. 

My body stiffens, and I begin swatting at the little things with a newfound urgency, sweeping them away from me and off of my clothes. “ _All_ of these?”

"They're called Coal Tars," Dad explains. "They're attracted to dank places and introverted humans." He steps forward, face steadily becoming more and more grim. "This world is comprised of two dimensions joined as one, kind of like a mirror. One is the material world we live in: Assiah. The other is Gehenna, an empty realm inhabited by demons. Normally, there is no contact between these two dimensions, nevermind any travel between them. But, having possessed the materials of this world, the demons are now intruding upon it." 

He reaches out his hand, grabbing my wrist. "Now, let's go. Thanks to this uproar, they have learned of your awakening. Demons of all species will be after you for all kinds of reasons. You must hide before that comes to pass," he says sternly.

"Hold on!" I yank my arm out of his grip. "What the hell are you talking about? And what do you mean by demons- or awakening?" I shout. "Why do I suddenly have a _quirk_?"

“Katsuki,” Dad lets out a breath and his brow furrows, “what you have isn’t a quirk. You are not a human being; you are the son of a demon, born to a human,” he says, voice low and serious.

I open my mouth to argue with him- to call bullshit- but am interrupted by the low growls of dogs and the chirpings of crickets and birds. My breath hitches and my eyes widen as my head whips back and forth, catching glimpses of the rapidly growing fungi: sprouting from the ceiling, splitting the walls, crawling over fences. It’s coming toward me.

“And,” Dad says once more, grabbing hold of my arm, “not just any demon- the devil most high.” He searches for an escape route, dragging me behind him by the arm. “You are the son of the Demon Lord, Satan.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking of doing something like this for a while now and I'm super pumped, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, if Bakugou ends up being slightly ooc, my bad. But keep in mind that his upbringing is different than it was is BnHA. I probably won't have him cursing as often but I will when necessary, alright? Coolio.


End file.
